and i am a creature, and i am surviving
by someofusare
Summary: Megstiel One-shot. What if Meg and Cas knew each other before they actually met? Why would they anyway? "She decides that if she ever sees the little winged bastard again she'll steal his sword and slit his throat for everything. For ruining her."


"and i've heard of pious men, and i've heard of dirty fiends, but you don't often hear of us ones in between." us ones in between by sunset rubdown

She remembers him from her days as a human, even beneath his mask of the semi-professional family man he's wearing these days. He always had a knack for choosing meat suits with bright, blue eyes and a deep, gravelly voice. She supposes it's his signature, like his own personal stamp of Castiel. That, and his perpetual inability to get any references she makes.

Back when she was just, well. She doesn't quite remember who she was, what her name was then. She supposes he would know. The Brothers Grimm seem to think that she took the name of the little Masters girl out of spite, but really, she just couldn't think of anything else to call herself. So she became Meg, loyal follower of Lucifer, Daddy's little devil. It was easier, really, just to play the whore than to explain that she couldn't remember what else to be.

Some of it comes back when she first sees Castiel, surrounding by heaven fire, and oh, what a treat that is. Serves the bastard right. If she had to scream in the flames he should at least stand near them. She falls into his arms, looks up at his eyes and hears her husband's voice, a soothing, Southern drawl with a constant tinge of underlying menace.

_Nice to meet you, Mr-_

_My name isn't important._

She smirks up at his eyes, certain she's seen him before. "So, what can you do, you impotent sap?"

That's of course when he throws her into the fire, stepping over her prone body to leave. Little fucker.

* * *

She remembers more when she heals herself in private, remembers her and her husband dancing as the guests of honor as an outlandishly opulent ball in St. Petersburg. The lights, the velvet of her dress as a man with pale, blue eyes took her by the hand and led her onto the floor.

"He's hitting you, isn't he?" he mutters in flawless Russian, spinning her around the room.

"How would you know that?" she responds in English. "Mr. My-name-isn't-important. We're strangers, are we not?"

He looks at her with something in his eyes, not quite anger but not quite happiness. She would later identify the emotion as being something close to fascination. She smiles in response, wondering what it would feel like to have his own personal brand of intensity focused solely on her.

She finds out that night, of course, when he stares into her eyes, muttering words in a language she can't replicate, as she comes apart in his arms.

The next morning, she sobs as she clutches her tattered dress around her arms, looking at herself in the mirror, her black eyes, her bruised collarbone. Her husband is still in the next room getting his hand healed by one of the servants. She screams for anyone but no one hears.

Nine months later there is a baby, and she realizes she never got a last name. She names her daughter Jane, and when she cries the lights in the hospital flicker until they burst into hundreds of little shards, sparks flying from the ceiling like stars.

* * *

Jane is hers, but she isn't her husband's, and when she is twelve he dies in a fire that no one can figure out the origin of. She thinks maybe it was an accident. She thinks maybe she doesn't really want to know, thinks that too many weird things have happened when Jane gets emotional that can't be explained. She can't bring herself to feel anything but happiness, either way.

She's not too shocked that when she's dies she's taken below instead of above. She's figures it's for the cheating, for the happiness over someone else's misery. She gets a confusing answer when she hears one of her torturer's call her an angel's whore.

When Alistair takes her under his wing, she forgets almost everything except for two words: burn, and Jane. She finds things are much easier that way.

* * *

She remembers everything, eventually, when she's in hiding. Moving from place to place with no real purpose allows for time to think, that much is for sure. She decides that if she ever seen the little winged bastard again she'll steal his sword and slit his throat for everything. For ruining her.

When she sees him that all goes to hell (literally and figuratively, she supposes). She kisses him, hoping to enact her plan, but there's that look in his eyes again, and she allows herself to be pushed up against the wall, allows the kiss to go a little further with him taking the lead. She had forgotten how nice that was. He doesn't remember her, anyway. She wonders how that is.

She thinks maybe this is a good alternative, anyway. A perfect sort of symmetry, dying for the man, the angel, who made her die in the first place.

She takes a deep breath and faces the hellhounds. Here goes nothing.

* * *

A/N: Just a little ficlet I thought of when I realized we never A. found out who was the parent of the Nephilim and B. never found out what put Meg in hell. Also the inner-masochist in me thought, what if Meg was always in love with Castiel because she knew him before? What if he accidentally killed his daughter? So here it is, written super quickly and horribly. I hope you like it. Read and review and maybe I'll do an actual thing for it.


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